


Une nuit à Paris

by Askell



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Thieves, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Banter, Betrayal, Blow Jobs, Brothers, Cliche, Feelings, For the most part, Forbidden Love, Foreign Language, France (Country), Heist, Humor, I'm French and I miss my country, Implied/Referenced Sex, Language Barrier, Languages, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mild clichés, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, No Underage Sex, Not where you expect them, Paris (City), Passion, Romance, Smoking, Undercover, Undercover Missions, so I wanted to write about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-17 10:27:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15459327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Askell/pseuds/Askell
Summary: A night in Paris.On their first solo assignment, Jason and Tim have to meet with an informant who might be a professionnal thief himself as well, because Jason can neither find his phone or his breath.





	Une nuit à Paris

**Author's Note:**

> I've started writing this because I just wanted to talk about France and how much I missed it, and it turned up into a full AU ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> You shouldn't need translations for the parts in French, but if something is not clear feel free to ask, I'll add it in the notes. Also, yes, I used slang and some slang spelling ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you liked it, it works as fertilizer on writers (we still smell bad but we grow so much faster)

Several billion tourists a year and the damn city was still a nightmare to navigate. Jason had seen Japanese countryside villages which spoke better English. It’s not that his French was bad, quite the opposite in fact. People had no problem understanding him, even complimented him on his accent from time to time. On the other hand, he couldn’t understand theirs.

Young people did not articulate, mixed in bastardized English, Arabic, Portuguese even. Old people avoided him, pretended they didn’t know the area. Asking the police officers was asking for trouble, given he looked like a professional MMA fighter. Jason did not exactly want a closer examination of his forged documents. 

Stuck in the maze of the Châtelet subway station, he swore it was the third time he took the dozens of meters long automated mats. Who the hell designs underground stations so long you have to manually accelerate your walking speed? A look at his watch confirmed he had been running in circles for a good thirty minutes. 

Setting his ego aside, Jason gave up and walked toward a young man to ask his way for the nth time. Back pressed against one of the dirty, white-tiled walls, earphones screwed tight in his ears, his long lashes lowered to look at the screen of his phone, he didn’t look like he even noticed the rest of the world. Like he was thousands of miles -kilometers?- away from the crowd, the cacophony, the smells.

“Excusez-moi ?” he tried, bowing slightly to catch the young man’s attention. Then he realized that habit from Hong Kong meant nothing in the middle of Paris. It still got a pair of intensely green eyes to dart on him.

The man huffed but still took an earbud off, his expression getting more and more hostile by the second. “Quoi ?” _What?_. 

“Je suis à la recherche de la rue Keller,” Jason explained. The street in question was a den of nerds, otakus and punks. Exactly where he would expect Tim to establish his overseas information network. Everyone needed to feel at home in some way or another.

“Bah c’est pas ici. Mais alors pas du tout,” the man huffed, rolling his eyes with a semi-amused, semi-annoyed smirk. “Pas d’ici hein ?”

In his defense, Jason more or less understood his current location was off. Maybe even completely off, if he read the man’s body language correctly. His face must have shown some of the effort he did to decipher the strange accent.

“Complètement paumé, ah ça les touristes... “ the man muttered to himself, taking off the other earbud. 

The individual words made sense, but together much less. At least now he got the man’s full attention. 

“Viens avec moi, j’vais t’montrer.” The hand gesture was universal enough for Jason to fill out the blanks of words he was sure he could read but sounded completely alien. The tone was informal, that he got. After all, they were more or less the same age. Of all the things he struggled with, when to use “tu” or “vous” was the hardest. He heard even French people didn’t know for sure, from time to time.

Still, he followed the man through the thick crowds. Pretended he didn’t see him lift a few people off their wallets. Who was he to judge, after all. With a record like his, he was even tempted to admire the grace and easiness in the gesture. While he didn’t look poor, the man didn’t look rich either. Jason had done so much worse to survive.

His eyes never lost the man’s silhouette. By necessity, yes, but also because Jason was just a man. And the guy was attractive. Strong shoulders, narrow hips, thick thighs. Smaller than Jason, but definitely no less bulky. 

Too soon, they were at the right junction and the instructions were clear enough. They needed to part. He didn’t really want to.

“Je suis Jason,” he said, extending his hand just as the man was starting to turn around.

“Damian. Besoin d’autre chose ?” _Need anything else?_

“Pourrions-nous échanger nos informations de contact, s’il m’arrivait de me perdre à nouveau ?” Jason cringed a bit at his over-politeness. He knew perfectly well he sounded completely off. There were more casual ways to ask to exchange numbers, but he wasn’t sure how to use them. It made Damian grin. 

“Ouais, si tu veux. Du coup je vais te rendre ton portable avant qu’tu paniques.” _If you want. I’ll give you your phone back before you panic, though._ In a swift movement, Jason’s phone appeared in his hands. Before he could protest, the man had registered his number with a wider, mischievous grin. 

“You-”

“I planned to give it back,” Damian said in a slightly accented, but otherwise perfect English. “Number included.”

With a wink, he disappeared in the sudden crowd getting off the train behind Jason. In a second he was completely out of sight. He checked his other pockets. Everything was there. On his phone, ‘Damian’ glowed for a second before the screen locked again. 

***

“Got lost, bro?” Tim called him out from under his desk almost an hour later. 

“Fucking airport, fucking Châtelet, and fucking Bastille. I’m never coming back in this city,” Jason growled, laying his bags on his brother’s bed. 

The apartment was what people elegantly called a 'chambre de bonne', a 'handsmaid’s room', which meant it was small, crappy, overpriced and right under the roof. At least the neighborhood was relatively calm, compared to what he had seen until then. 

“And don’t even get me started on the strikes. One train out of five? I’ve been in third world countries with a better transportation system!”

“Careful Jason, you’re already picking up the cultural need to complain about everything,” Tim retorted as he rose up, a mocking smile on his lips. 

“How did you manage to live there for three weeks is a miracle,” he said, opening the fridge to find a well-deserved drink. It was surprisingly full of healthy things. And beer, thankfully. “Wow is that really yours? Who’s secretly taking care of you Timbo?”

“My local contact, actually.” The detached tone attracted Jason’s curiosity. A bottle in hand, he rested his hip on his brother’s table and took a sip. Then, in a falsely detached tone as well:

“Is that so?”

“Oh fuck off, I know what you’re thinking.”

“I didn’t say nothin’.” He took another gulp, to hide his knowing smirk. “Is she from Lebanon? Saw some delicious-looking tabuleh and kibbeh in there.” Which, to prove his point, he startled nibbling on. 

“ _He_ wouldn’t tell me where he’s from though I’m guessing somewhere in the Middle East,” Tim said, shooting him a warning look. “Now get off my food and stop assuming things.”

“Never have I been guilty of assuming anything about anyone, ever.”

“Fuck you, Todd.”

“Ain’t the one needing it,” he said with a shit-eating grin, dodging the book aimed at his face. “Those French men and their charms- ouch!” He hadn’t managed to dodge the second book fast enough.

The rest of the evening was spent watching TV ( _that_ accent he got, not the lightning-fast rumble of the streets), eating and planning. The operation needed to be perfectly executed, but they knew their jobs. Get in, get the Faberge egg, go back to Selina as fast as possible. It was their first solo gig, she had high expectations for them. 

“When do I meet your doubtlessly pretty French informant?” Jason asked casually around his kafta skewer.

Tim rolled his eyes ostensibly. “When he decides he wants to come, that was one of his conditions.”

“Sounds shady.”

“He is. Pretty, yes, but fucking terrifying if you want my opinion.”

“How so?” Jason resisted teasing his brother, instead focusing on detecting possible risks.

“I’m almost sure he has killed someone. It’s that look he gets when he talks about casualties.”

“There will be no casualties during this mission. You know Selina will-”

“Throw us out, yes I know. I still trust him. He’s really good at his job, and well. He brings me food.”

“You’re too weak to bribery and nice legs, bro.” 

“Oh shut up, I’m not the one who slept with a police officer.”

The rest of the conversation got lost in a childish tickle battle, won in extremis by Tim and his vicious hands. Outside, the bright orange public lights lit up. On a Tuesday night, there were still some people chatting in the bars downstairs. So high in the old building, Jason was able to see a strange disruption in the clouds overhead. After a while, he understood it was the Eiffel tower lighthouse. 

In spite of Tim’s protests, he climbed on the roof for a smoke. The zinc tiles felt cold and fragile under his weight, but they held up. There, he could really see why they called it the city of light. The place de la Bastille shone half a mile away in a puddle of noise and agitation. A few buildings still hid the tower from his sight. 

Careful not to slip or being noticed, he started walking toward the highest viewpoint he could find. Finally sitting on top of an unlit chimney, he breathed deeply, filled his lungs with the smell of the night. The Eiffel tower was a minuscule shimmering point in-between two radio relays. In fact, if not for the blinking light on top of it, Jason might have missed it entirely. 

As he started to go back, his phone slipped off his pocket. It shattered on the pavement, six stories and a gutter full of rainwater later. He knew before hitting the streets that it was unsalvageable. There went any possible date with the man from the subway. Distracted as he had been by the strikes, Jason barely even remembered his first name. 

No more distraction from the mission, Selina would have said.

***

Three days later, they were ready to start Operation Chick. It had started with a joke about the hen with golden eggs, and then she had called them her baby chickens, and so on until they got stuck with it. The last thing they needed was the green light from Tim’s informant. He was supposed to arrive in the afternoon.

The doorbell rang and Tim got up. Jason snickered when he kissed cheeks with the mysterious man. He couldn’t see anything from the couch, but already had his fair amount of stereotypical prognostics. If he was completely honest, he more or less imagined a mashup of his brother’s exes, with a beret and a baguette. His heart skipped a beat when Damian walked in, instead. 

He carried himself in a completely different way, was the first thing Jason noticed. He understood why Tim thought he had killed people. His confident, controlled attitude was matched by an absolutely silent step. 

Damian barely looked at him. Didn’t even seem to recognize him. Fair enough, Jason thought. It hurt, but he understood. 

The three of them spent several hours exchanging information against sealed envelopes only Tim knew the contents of. 

“I need one of you to come with me check the escape route,” Damian announced, sounding about as British as a BBC host. “The best climber, preferably.”

“Don’t you know a bit too much, for an informant?” Jason protested before Tim could answer anything. 

“Informant uh? Is that what I am now, _Drake_?” He purposefully forced his French accent on that last word with a mocking smirk.

The younger man had the decency to blush a little. He pointedly avoided the two pairs of eyes fixated on him. “Before you start assuming things again, Jay, it’s not like that. You know how Sel mentioned she would send someone to monitor us? Well, that’s him.”

“I do not look like my step-mother, but I thought you would have recognized my father in me,” Damian shrugged, straight-faced but still looking amused by the situation.

It took him a moment of carefully studying the man’s face before he saw it. It was easy getting distracted by the fullness of his lips, or the way his thick lashes framed his eyes. The long column of his throat, the delicate angle of his jaw, the beautiful tan of his skin. He missed the knowing smirk Tim shot him. 

“Goodness gracious,” he finally exclaimed. “Bruce?!”

“Celui-là même,” Damian confirmed. “Now, I still need someone to come with me.”

“Jason will go, I’m busy today,” Tim intervened. 

They exchanged a gaze which meant ‘have fun big bro’, ‘you will pay for this’ and ‘thank me later Jay’. When Jason turned around, the other man was already in the frame of the window, using the ornaments to lift himself toward the roof. 

Definitely a genetic trait to consider doors to be superfluous. 

Chasing after a man who was probably also spider somewhere up the family tree was not an easy task. Damian glided on the slippery tiles like a Bolchoï dancer, not once losing his footing in spite of the fine sheen of rain falling on them. After nearly losing sight of his smile for the fifth time, Jason understood the kind of game Damian intended to play. 

Far in the distance, sirens hurled as firefighters or the police drove at full speed to wherever they were needed. Changing from polluted orange to dark blue to bright pink, the skies finally cleared in the early morning. Jason had to cut the pursuit when he caught the scent of fresh bread from a bakery at street level. How could anyone stay that grumpy when they had such a delicious scent to wake them up?!

“Ah, yes, very _typique_ ,” Damian snickered not far from his ear. Good Virgin Mary and baby Jesus, that man was a real-life ninja.

“Are you using that accent because we find it sexy or to sound more condescending?”

“Bits of both. Seems effective so far.”

The paling pink lights gave Damian’s face rounder, softer edges. Perhaps his amused expression contributed. He was definitely closer than Jason estimated his voice to be. In fact, he was all over his personal space, one arm casually resting above Jason’s hip with his hand propped against the wall in his back. His heart hammered in his ribcage as Damian went on his tiptoes to murmur in his ear.

“I can’t open the door with you in the way.”

Now this, among all of the things that happened to him in his short life, was embarrassing. Tongue deciding on its own to babble a stream of awkward excuses, he stepped aside, not missing the raised eyebrow aimed at him. Hesitating to throw himself over the railway to end his suffering, Jason nonetheless followed his guide down musty-smelling stairs. 

Without much transition, Jason found himself walking in what looked like the empty backstage of a theater. Did any of these places have an emotional significance for Damian, or was it just out of commodity? He stayed silent, not daring to talk after jumping to conclusions like a teenager. What if French people were just that flirty, but without really meaning it? Was he being inappropriate? Was Damian even French at all?

Through another service door, they ended up on the streets as the city woke up. A shocking number of people lived there, reminding Jason of his own toughest years. Like the rest of the locals, Damian ignored them for the most part. Knowing his father, the rare ones Damian greeted were probably part of his information network. There, his demeanor changed again, from feline to gangster swagger without warning. Not wanting to look out of place, Jason mimicked his moves. It was a bit ridiculous, but most men their age walked that way from his observations. 

"Where did you learn…" he made a vague but meaningful hand gesture. "All that? The acting, the accents, the slang?"

"I have been my parent's pupil since birth," Damian simply shrugged. 

Jason waited for him to elaborate, but the younger man remained silent as he navigated them under narrow alcoves. They had reached a more artistic district, he noticed. Space invaders made of colored tiles appeared here and there on the buildings, as well as street art and graffiti. They crossed path with young people walking back home after a night out, heels in hand or frantically looking for their wallets. In front of an important-looking building, heavily armed policemen (or was it the army?) were stationed next to metal barriers.

"What are they doing?" he asked, trying not to look suspicious.

"It's part of the plan vigipirate… the counter-terrorism national plan, if you want. After the Bataclan it was even worse, they've subsidized a little since then."

Jason nodded, noting the slight strain in Damian's voice. 

"Were you…"

"I do not want to discuss this."

His mouth snapped shut, keeping all the questions to himself. He could sympathize, though. The kid was probably too young to remember 9/11, but Jason had been seven at that time. With Damian's distinctly Arabic features, there had to have been a racist backlash, he deduced. Or maybe he'd been caught in the middle of the events. Maybe he knew people who were. Maybe… Chasing the gloom thoughts from his head, he focused on the beautiful architecture. His legs were starting to protest, but they had reached the Seine. The historical center of the city must have not been too far away, judging from the buildings. Damian actually nudged him when they approached Notre-Dame, a knowing smirk on his lips. They had some time before the operation, of course Jason would do some sightseeing.

Though there was one unexpected sight he found far more attractive than all the monuments. 

***

Damian, he found out, was far less relaxed than his casual demeanor indicated. In fact, he was mentally biting his nails to the bone. Nothing showed it, of course, not with what Jason guessed of his training, but he could sense it. He put his hand on the younger man's shoulder, stopping him a dozen feet short of antique book sellers. 

"Calm down, you've making me nervous," he said, rubbing circles in the hard muscle with his fingers.

Damian made an annoyed sound with his tongue, rolling his shoulder to eject Jason's hand. 

"If I were, you would have reasons to worry too. We're almost there, by the way. And stop looking like a tourist, Parisians hate them."

"Technically I am one, though. Does that mean I should check for my wallet again?"

A small, amused grin floated on the younger man's lips for a split second.

"Your phone no longer interests me. Though I guess it did not interest you very much either."

Jason felt the tips of his ears burn. Rubbing his neck, he tried to find a way to explain his regrettable accident without sounding like he was making up excuses.

"About that… it fell when I went exploring. In a puddle. From the top floor."

"That so? La faute à pas de chance ?" was all Damian answered, expression hard to read. A mixture of curiosity, sarcasm, and disbelief. Maybe some mockery, as well.

All in all, it looked very French.

Jason let himself be led to a small apartment, blank and clean, in an indistinguishable apartment complex. There was a double-sized bed, a single chair, and on it a heavy duffel bag. Damian quickly reviewed its contents, passports and credit cards, spare clothing, toothbrushes. Carrying weapons in France was a delicate matter, when you did not really intend to use them. At least, Tim didn't. Jason reveled in his own national stereotypes, and readily admitted guns were his thing. He wondered what Damian would think of it.

The younger man then excused himself for a smoke at the window, sending Jason to double-check the security. In spite of the bare appearances, the safehouse was actually pretty well rigged. Once they had departed, a specialized cleaner would come and take care of that. 

Soon however, the distinct scent of cotton candy reached his nose. With a mixture or horror and indignation, he turned to the culprit, who had the audacity to rise and eyebrow. A thick cloud of white steam escaped through his nose, catching the rays of sunlight falling on his face. Eyes alight like two glistening jade beads, Damian feigned not understanding Jason's distress.

"You were almost perfect, but you had to vape…"

"Almost perfect, uh? Interesting," Damian purred in a low, tempting voice. 

Ignoring the innuendo, Jason leaned against the wall next to the window. If he wanted, he could reach out to Damian easily. Snatch the fountain pen shaped cigarette, and throw it away. Tendrils of smoke quietly melted from the younger man's lips, inevitably drawing attention. He cared about his appearance, in a way Jason would have never noticed otherwise. The closeness of his shave, the shape of his eyebrows, the softness of his lips. Even the absence of stray cuticles around his nails indicated intentional, but half-hidden beauty.

"Est-ce que je peux vous baiser ?" Jason asked in his huskier voice.

Damian chocked on his breath, had to cough and wipe his eyes. His shoulders stated to shake. A strange sound echoed from deep within his lungs, which Jason eventually recognized as laughter. Dread filled him as he thought he may have had interpreted the signs completely wrong.

"What-, what does 'baiser' mean for you? Just curious." A gently mocking grin now adorned Damian's lips. He turned his cigarette off.

"…To kiss?"

"Explains a lot. It means 'to fuck'. You asked me if you could fuck me." The young man didn't seem that offended, but clearly took pleasure in torturing Jason. "The right verb is 'embrasser'. Also, yes you can. To both."

Bathed in golden light, speckles of sun shining in his hair, Damian looked up to Jason with those irresistible eyes. Somehow, there was less than a breath of space between them, not even enough to look anywhere else. One of them leaned closer, their noses brushing tentatively. 

"You're hesitating. Why?" The spark of impatience lit up all sorts of fires in Jason's body.

"I just- how old are you?"

"Old enough. I wouldn't be doing this heist otherwise. Not with Miss Kyle. Now shut the fuck up and kiss me."

Jason didn't need any more prompting. Soon, he found himself pushed against the wall, strong arms keeping up up as Damian mauled his throat. Not that he complained. The strange mixture of tenderness and violence kept him on edge, senses overpowered. His head swam with how fast he breathed, barely registering the glorious sunshine painting Damian in precious hues. Freeing one hand, he reached out to tear away the clothes obscuring his sight. Damian's mouth was on his again, strong and domineering. 

_I'm not gonna be on top,_ Jason thought, arousal coursing its way into his veins like a dozen pureblood horses. 

One hand cupped his ass shamelessly, kneaded it appreciatively before seizing one of Jason's thighs to wrap it around his own hips. There, both of them could feel each other through the thickness of their jeans. The air felt white-hot, shared through their open mouthes. It was intimate in a way Jason wasn't yet comfortable with, so he distracted himself with pressing his palm against Damian's erection, dragging a pleasured moan from him. 

Truth was, his normal self would have never dropped to his knees so close to a window. But humans are rarely as irrational as when they're feeling they could die of frustration. So he did, ignored the horrible feeling of touching metal with his teeth as he dragged the zipper down in a rather cliché, but smooth, motion. Damian's hand, caressing his hair like he would the fur of a sleepy cat, drove him all kinds of crazy. He had braced himself for some rough pulling, and now found himself melting. A thumb gently traced the shape of his jaw, touched his lips before slowly pulling the lower one down. 

Jason got his pants and boxer briefs out of the way, not thinking for a second about protection as he took the whole length of Damian's erection in his mouth. Jaw stretched to a painful angle, he took his time to look at his partner's reaction. Flushed and panting, Damian was a beautiful sight of wrecked man with bed hair and clenched abs. How could Jason resist stroking them with his free hand. A body-long shiver confirmed his attentions were welcomed. Pressing his tongue to the underside of Damian's cock, Jason started to suck gently, then with more intensity when another groan echoed above him. 

He raked his nails inside one of those smooth thighs, which resulted in Damian jerking them open a little more. Curious to see how far the younger man could go, Jason put more pressure, earning himself a choked moan and a suppressed hip jolt. Excellent. He kept bobbing his head back and forth, experimenting with his hands on the inside Damian's thighs, discovering just how sensitive they were.

"J-Jason," Damian stammered, strong accent completely involuntary this time. "Oh putain…" _Oh fuck…_

His legs were now as far apart as they could be with the jeans pooling at his ankles and him standing up, tight muscle bulging under Jason's palms keeping them apart. Some people liked to be stretched that way, and apparently Damian had no idea, judging from his sudden lack of control.

"Je te veux…"

"I want you too," Jason managed to say as he stopped to ease the burn in his neck. "Bed?"

"Bed."

***

Later that day, as the embers died under his skin, Jason thought he had rarely felt that satisfied after sex. Usually he needed more time, a form of emotional connection to even want it. This kind of unforeseeable surge wasn't his style. Nor was sleeping with someone in the middle of a gig. Should Selina know, and she would, she'd have his ears for such a lack of professionalism. As if she and Damian's father had only been enemies throughout the years. What an idea, to sleep with an interpol detective. At least his son hadn't followed that path. With the kind of clarity only orgasms bring, Jason wanted to slap himself with a brick. Not because he had regrets. Rather, because he couldn't find he had any.

Damian was already getting dressed, his muscular back no longer bathed in light, but still entrancing. He affected coldness and detachment, which Jason understood. They both had that look in their eyes, though. For him, the absolute certitude of an upcoming heartbreak. Like a storm gathering at the horizon in great, dark clouds, Jason could already hear the thunder. He didn't dare to interpret what he could see of Damian's emotions. 

"Any questions before I leave?"

"Yes." Jason couldn't miss the way the younger man's pose tensed ever so slightly. "The code of the door downstairs?"

Damian's relief was palpable. Clearly, he didn't want to address whatever insane, impossibly hot, heart-wrenching thing just happened between them. Neither did Jason.

"367B. The key is under the rug."

"Thanks."

A dark silhouette at the window, Damian spared one last, undecipherable look at Jason. "Don't get yourself killed." 

With that, he was gone. 

***

Climbing roofs freshly fucked was something he knew by experience was not advisable, but it was the only way to effectively avoid the police. With the number of heist movies they had, you'd expect someone would have trained at least one elite parkour group. Neither Tim or Jason complained, the billion-dollars worth egg secured in their bags. The decoy for Tim, the real thing for Jason, as planned. 

He had to salute Damian for the escape route. The memories were still fresh enough to stab him right through the chest, but it was a good path. Every single time the tip of an uniform showed around a corner, they had a way to hide out of sight, or jump over, or disappear in dissimulated entry. Just the right amount of chase and escape, in his opinion. Yet, something was wrong.

Not with his heart, that he would need more than fifteen hours to heal from. No, his instincts screamed at something he couldn't yet perceive. At his side, dressed in full black leather gear as well, his brother had that frown. The one which confirmed he wasn't just projecting his own struggles on the mission. 

"Wrong?" he signed in a hurry.

Shaking his head, Tim gestured for him to go through their second itinerary. The one only he knew about, for security reasons. Jason was only aware it existed, and Damian hadn't been informed on purpose. Which confirmed Tim's suspicions. 

When they finally reached the safehouse, no cops had managed to follow them. Still, both brothers had a hand over their stomachs. Selina had been very insistent on trusting your body over your sense of logic, especially in situations like these. 

"Weapon," Tim signed, readying his bo-staff. 

Guns had been impossible to negotiate in their contract, both because they were illegal and thus easier to track on the territory if found, because the noise ruined their stealth, and mostly because it was a no-kill mission. Jason raised his brass knuckles. Worst case scenario, they dropped one of the bags and took off as fast as possible.

Inside the safehouse however, there was nothing but the bed Jason had taken the utmost care to clean. No DNA could be left on the scene. Selina had had it easy in the eighties, when forensics weren't using modern technology as intensely as they did now. As a joke, during their preparation days, they had visited the museum of the Police Prefecture, not so far from their HQ in the fifth arrondissement. An unexpectedly instructing visit. Bad guys like them had a golden age they didn't fully enjoy, in the past. Mostly because decapitation was still a thing for quite a long time, had argued Tim. Apparently he had read some books about prisons which really deterred him from ever wanting to end up in one. He didn't have Jason's experience.

They checked everything several times, unable to shake off the uneasy feeling. 

"I think we're just on edge because it's our first," Tim finally ruled after their third inspection. "If there was anything we would have found it yet. I'm going to take off for now, you know the procedure."

It wasn't framed as a question, but Jason nonetheless nodded in confirmation. After a last embrace, he watched his brother disappear in the shadows. The fake egg would make several appearances during the upcoming days, while he stayed safely hidden with the real one. Then Selina's extraction team would get him back to the US. Not an easy mission, but not an overly difficult one either.

The distinct cock of a gun's security had him freeze completely. Emerging from his hideout, Damian coldly pointed at his chest. His expression was a mask of indifference. He might have shot already, the pain was already there. Obscenely shiny, a badge at his hip indicated where his true loyalty laid.

"Motherfucker."

"Hand over the egg and I won't hurt you." His tone matched the ice of his posture.

"What if I resist, you'll shoot me?"

"Yes. Hand over the egg."

In a moment of misplaced openness and rightful anger, Jason felt tears burn the corners of his eyes. They weren't visible through his special lenses, but he was sure his face still conveyed the hurt pretty well. 

"I hate you so fucking much. Do you have any idea what-"

"The. Egg. Now."

"You're a fucking asshole, Damian. Is that even your real name? What will you say to your superiors when they'll know you slept with your fucking target?!" he shouted, feeling intense satisfaction when he actually saw the repressed jolt in the other man's posture.

"It was a mistake I will assume. Now I have given you an order, comply."

"Go on. Put another fucking hole in my heart. And then another one, just to be sure I'm fully dead. How do you say in French? Jamais deux sans trois?"

"Just give me the egg, Jason," whispered Damian in a soft voice. 

Defeat had the worst taste when it was seasoned with betrayal. He threw the bag at his enemy's feet, no longer caring for the integrity of it. Damian stepped back, the shadows almost entirely eating him up now. Jason was bathed in street lights, an easy target had they taken the precaution to use snipers.

"Now steal my gun and shoot me in the leg. It's a tranquilizer, it won't hurt me."

"The fuck?!"

"It was a mistake, but I don't regret it. Now act fast before they understand, and stay out of the windows."

Too many contradicting emotions. Not enough time to process. Jason acted. Disarmed Damian, shot him as instructed. Seconds later, the floor flew in tiny shards as thy tried to stop him. 

Damian felt heavy in his arms, the chemicals already slowing down his system. He didn't have the time to say anything. The younger man was gone before he could even consider kissing him. More and more noises indicated elite intervention troops invading the building. No time. He ran away.

***

Wide bay windows showed the vertiginous New-York landscape of skyscrapers, glass and stone. As tall and solemn as the towers surrounding them, Bruce Wayne stood in all his ominous glory. The days Damian had been afraid of the menacing man were not so far away, pushing some form of incongruous shyness on his person as he waited.

Hands clasped behind his back, he already knew the kind of words which would be hurled at his face. It didn't dull the blades they would plant in his ego. 

"Ten months of planning. Four years to infiltrate her network. Your own training, your career," his father began in a calm but unforgiving tone. "All of that for a common thief. Was it worth it, Damian?"

"As I already told the internal commission, it was part of my cover. Hadn't I done it, I would have raised suspicions."

"Selling yourself like a cheap whore isn't within your mission parameters."

"What are you most upset about, father? That I might have lacked professionalism while it was proved and approved I didn't, or that I slept with a man?" Damian asked, letting just a rivulet of his personal tsunami of anger slip through. "If that can reassure you, as you doubtlessly heard during my confidential hearing, I was on top."

To his credit, he didn't flinch when Bruce nearly split the wooden desk in half with his fist. However, as expected of the 'world's best detective' according to their superiors, he regained composure with a smoothness Damian secretly envied.

"If that was your idea of a plan to get at me, be assured it worked. Now, I leave to you the responsibility to assess if it was worth risking everything in a misplaced feat of rebellion. Rest assured that-"

"By the way, is any of them my half-brother? I hope you and Catwoman used condoms, I'd hate to have had an incestuous hook-up."

" _Out._ " Bruce blanched. 

Vengeance was a petty satisfaction, but after the weeks of constant humiliation it felt good to get the upper hand back, if only for such a short amount of time. In the hopes of getting any DNA, he had had to expose his naked body to an army of detectives who treated him no better than the bodies they sometimes examined. No, scratch that, the bodies were at least given some amount of respect. Oh, he wasn't the first one to have slipped like that. Numerous infiltrated agents actually formed authentic relationships, not that his and Jason's had really been. Due to his own lack of attention, there was actual footage of their passion. Analyzed and showed to as many people as deemed necessary, during his audience. Losing his father's support hadn't been quite as hurtful, after all of that. 

Just as he reached the door, Bruce's voice echoed loudly, like crumbling glaciers. 

"Don't even think about taking credit for saving the egg. It was a decoy."

"Mince alors…" _Well done, Jason._


End file.
